


Weevil's Lost Earring

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-01
Updated: 2009-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac moves back in with her parents after her first year at Hearst. Weevil helps her unpack (or so the bishop told the actress).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weevil's Lost Earring

**Author's Note:**

> For Kink Bingo 2009, prompt "pegging/strap-ons". Post-season 3, spoilers for series. Some angst (non-specific allusions to emotional and physical violence).

Many months ago, in high school, back in the fall of senior year when your brothers in the PCH still talked to you, Veronica Mars asked you about an earring. You joked then that if you had lost it anywhere, it was in some chick's shag carpet. Your friends laughed. Would they laugh now if you told the same story? Probably not, if they knew the details of how exactly the earring became tangled in the dusty red fibers. Just as well, then, that they're no longer your friends.  
*  
Something has been bugging you all day, but it takes you until you get home to realize that today is the anniversary of the old Sharks' stadium demolition. You can't bring yourself to visit Thumper's grave or even Felix's, but you've got to do something. You change out of your maintenance uniform into some broken-in chinos, ambivalently grateful that Hearst has reinstated you for the summer, then find your sneakers and go for a walk.

You wander through Neptune in the deepening dark, zig-zagging through neighborhoods you used to feel you knew. You're drifting toward the ocean, hoping for a breeze to break the stale heat and clear your head. Maybe if you're really lucky those clouds over the beach will even favor you with a drop or two; there's nothing like the feel of rain on a freshly-shaved scalp.

At the fork that will take you either to the planet Mars or away, into an area you're less familiar with, you hesitate. You're not sure whether V's left for Virginia yet, or what you'd say to her if she hasn't. You could go say hi to Backup and the Sheriff, but that'd be awkward and take all of what, thirty seconds? And then what'll you do? You take the road less traveled.

The houses here are a little older, the trees bigger and shadier than you're used to, and perhaps this contributes to your sense that it's getting darker faster as you approach the house. There's a green Beetle parked outside, a white girl with brown hair emptying out its over-stuffed trunk. Your chivalrous instinct kicks in automatically when her grip slips on the cardboard box she's wrestling across the lawn, and you lunge to catch it before you notice who she is.

"Hey!" you say when you straighten up.

"Weevil, hi!" Mac returns the greeting, looking pleasantly surprised.

You take the box completely into your own arms, shifting onto your good leg when the added mass provokes a complaint from your healing knee. "You want a hand with this?"

Mac looks at the car, like she's calculating how long it'll take her to unload it on her own. "That'd be great." She grabs another, smaller box, then leads you around to the side door and into the basement.

"This your parents' place?" You set the box against the wall, glancing around at faded red carpet and wood-veneer walls.

"It is," she answers, wiping her palms on her shorts, then heads back up the stairs. "They turned my old room into an office while I was gone so I'm stuck down here for the summer. Not that I really mind; it's quieter anyway. Cooler too."

It takes five loads to empty the car. The boxes are mostly re-used packaging from computer components and small appliances. Once everything's underground Mac opens up the chest freezer. "Popsicle?" she offers.

"Please." You kick off your shoes, drop onto a threadbare couch and sink halfway to the floor.

Mac frowns into the colorful cardboard box. "Orange okay? My pig brother's eaten everything else."

"Whatever."

You gratefully accept the fluorescent treat. It's cooler down here but not so much that the sticky ice isn't a welcome refreshment. You can't help watching her mouth slide over her own popsicle as she starts opening boxes one-handed. You eat quickly. Pushing yourself up from the couch with some difficulty, you leave your garbage on top of the freezer and go to help her. She clearly knows what she's doing, sorting things into piles as she extracts them, so you wander the room unfolding exposed box-tops.

When you reach for the nondescript brown box sitting on top of the dryer Mac raises a hand to stop you. "Leave that one," she says, but the top opens and you feel like Pandora, or possibly Sasha Grey, because the first thing you see when you look inside is an enormous rubber cock.

"Is this yours?" you ask, pointing into the box. It's packed to the brim with neatly-packaged sex toys and related paraphernalia. Besides the arresting dildo you can see bottles of lube, massage oils and the spines of suggestively-titled DVDs—and that's just the surface layer.

"It's my mom's," Mac answers, slurping the last ice from her stick, and your left eyebrow reaches for the ceiling. "Her latest get-rich-quick scheme. She's a 'Passion consultant' for a company that does those shop-at-home parties? Like for Tupperware, but with, you know." She gestures at the box. "That's her demo kit."

"Demo kit," you repeat, examining a 'jelly c-ring with vibrating bullet'.

"Yeah. Somebody books a party, invites all their friends and provides the refreshments. Mom comes over with her basket of goodies and some embarrassment-busting party games, and then she hands around the order forms. She gets paid on commission and the host gets a discount based on how much everybody spends."

"Let me get this straight," you say, conflicted between leering and gagging, "you mean a living room full of tipsy housewives testing out the merchandise?"

"Not like that," Mac looks aghast. "At least I hope not. I think they just giggle and wave them in each other's faces."

You chuckle and start digging through the box with more enthusiasm.

"We probably shouldn't," Mac says dutifully, walking towards you.

You pretend not to hear her. "You know I've never seen most of these things in real life."

"Weevil?"

"Don't worry, I'll pack it up nice as I found it. Promise." You hurriedly bury the fancifully-shaped vibrators labeled 'Rabbit Habit' and 'Eager Beaver' under a pile of impractical undergarments as Mac approaches—if there's one thing you hate being reminded of it's senior year. You're betting she'd agree.   
You lift something up to the light, a tangle of webbing straps. "The heck is this?"

She smirks and takes it from you, holding it against herself. "It's a strap-on harness. See?"

This time you leer without apology. "I'm still confused. Maybe you should model it for me."

Mac rolls her eyes but steps into the harness, still smirking, and snaps it on over her pants. She shoves a hand under the belt from inside, pokes two fingers through the hole in the triangular front panel and wiggles them. She cocks her hip, returning your dare-stare.

"Where are the, um," you break off laughing as you look back to the treasure chest, trying not to blush.

"Attachments?" Mac supplies, leaning closer over the box so that your shoulders brush together. "Aha!" she says when the excavation unearths a deposit of flared-based silicone dildos.

"Damn," you observe as she starts taking the synthetic phalli out of their packages and lining them up on the washing machine. It's a diverse collection, ranging from chocolate-brown and veiny with pendulous scrotum, to semi-realistic and almost as thick as your wrist, to sleek and slender with S-curves and spiral ridges like something out of Star Trek.

When the roll-call is complete she starts grabbing them one or two at a time, chuckling, and holding them level with her pubic bone. "What do you think?"

"What do I think what?"

"Which one's the most 'me'?"

You peruse the selection. It actually isn't that hard to choose; your hand darts immediately towards one in the back row and passes it to her. It's modest in length and girth, smooth aside from subtle shaping for the head and ridges down one side, and colored a vibrant purple. "An idea for next time you dye your hair."

Mac takes the dildo and tries it on, slipping it through the harness and twisting it straight. She hums approvingly, stepping back to look at herself in a dusty mirror leaning against the wall. It looks good on her, well-sized in proportion to her frame and with enough quirky science fiction energy to suit her personality without looking completely preposterous.

"Nice." Mac takes hold of the new appendage with her right hand and strokes up and down the length of it, lightly at first and then harder, squeezing it with her fist. "Wow. I can almost feel—huh."

"Having fun there?"

"Yeah." She sounds a little breathless. "Wanna touch it?"

You hesitate. You just handed it to her, you know it won't sting you, but it wasn't attached then. It wasn't a part of her. Now it seems wrong. For one thing, it's laying hands in a familiar way on a girl who's never before shown interest in you, and for another it's touching somebody else's dick, which you've never done before. Not really, not on purpose. You frown, wondering how those two concerning factors don't cancel each other out. Fuck it. You're not going to be afraid of a purple prosthetic penis.

You grab Mac's dong firmly. It's a little awkward, like your hand knows the shape but the angle's wrong and it can't curl the way it wants to. It doesn't feel like flesh, or at least not like yours—too cold, for starters, though it's warming in your grip. It's solid, heavy, but it gives a little when you squeeze it. You give it a yank and Mac stumbles forward, catching herself with her hands on your shoulders, her forehead close to yours. "Hijo," you say, relaxing your fist to caress more delicately. "You could really fuck a girl with this thing."

"Or a guy," Mac adds softly.

Her face is turned down to watch you playing with her so you can't see her expression, but something in her voice makes your cock twitch and your throat go dry. You cough once and say hoarsely, "Or that."

Her head tilts slowly upwards. When she meets your eyes her pupils are huge, and you don't think it's just the patchy lighting. She stares at you, her mouth open a wary fraction, and keeps staring for a long time. At first the silence is uncomfortable, but then there's this click of a moment when she almost smiles and you can feel it's changed, it's competitive now, who can not-talk longest, and you feel yourself start to smile too as you set your jaw and adjust your stance on the concrete, still pulling on her meat. It's pretty satisfying when she cracks first.

"I don't want to date you."

That, you're not quite sure what to do with. "Fair enough. I don't want to date me either."

"I didn't mean that! I meant, I just got out of a relationship. Two in a row, in fact, so I don't really want to date anybody right now. I need some time on my own."

"I'm honestly not sure why we're talking about this."

She frowns like she's not sure either. "I just . . . It feels like we're about to fool around, and I wanted to be clear that, if we do, it doesn't mean we're dating."

"We are?"

"Don't you want to?"

You know that if you were dating, that question would be a trap. But if you're not, if you're just friends who happen to be standing very close together in a warm basement . . . You realize that you're still fondling her detachable junk and jerk your hand away. She frowns.

"Sorry," you say. "I mean, sorry. I mean—could you repeat the question?"

"The question was, 'do you want to fool around with me', but I think panic is a pretty clear answer."

"Not necessarily. I just need a minute to think about this." You cover your mouth with a fist, looking at a knot in the fake wood on the wall behind her. "You mean using the thing, right?"

"I guess."

"I've never done that before."

"Me neither."

You stifle a laugh over how uncanny this feels—a friend offering you sex with straps but no strings. You really didn't expect your evening would get this weird when you left the house, or this significant. Because it is a serious question, more than this white girl probably realizes.

You've never really cared that much about other people being gay, not at school or work or even in your family and your gang. It didn't hurt you, so why fear it? What was more important was how people reacted when you called them gay, or how they were expected to react, because that was an edge. You could use that to manipulate people, keep them in line, keep control. You bust heads when somebody makes insinuations about you because that's what you've got to do, but what you resent more than the accusation is the attempt to control implied in it, like the word is a leash people can pull on by speaking it. It's kind of a tangential point right now because you're pretty sure you're not gay, not in any detectable amount, and you know that doing this wouldn't make you so. After all, Mac may be wearing a cock right now but she is still a woman so anything you do with her is, by definition, not gay.

The issue is, you've grown up hearing that a man who's penetrated, worst of all one who offers his hips or lips willingly, is not and cannot be called a man: un hombre de verdad esta chingon, nunca chingada. You're not sure what the official policy is on sticking a finger up your own ass while you jerk off, which you've done plenty of times but never told anyone about, and you're even less sure what They would say about getting fucked by a woman. Then again you've got a co-conspirator, a smart, cute girl who knows how to keep a secret, eager to share the experiment without the pressure of a relationship. These are pretty much optimal fantasy fulfillment circumstances and not likely to arrive again. Shouldn't the model of action-based Chicano masculinity approve of seizing such a rare opportunity?

"We don't have to, if you don't want—"

"No. Yes. Hagamos. Let's do it."

Mac looks relieved, then worried. "Okay, so . . . what happens next? Should we kiss?"

You shrug. "I like kissing."

"But it feels a little awkward right now."

"Yeah, it kinda does." You glance down, and it suddenly seems ridiculous that she's got the harness on over her shorts, dildo straining to redefine 'sore thumb'. "Maybe we should start by taking our clothes off? And move closer to the couch?"

"Good idea," she steps away from you, back onto the carpet, then hesitates. She fidgets with the hem of her t-shirt like she's not sure what to do with it, so you demonstrate with your own.

She blinks at your exposed torso and you draw yourself up defensively. You're not exactly at your most ripped these days; your job is physically demanding but just enough to leave you too exhausted most days to work out in a more organized manner. Then she points at your chest and you realize she's staring at your tattoos. "Exactly how much of your body do those cover?"

"Dunno," you say, dropping the shirt and going for your belt, "I haven't measured."

Mac hurries to catch up, ditching her shirt and bra. She takes a deep breath before removing her pants, but manages to do it without taking the harness completely off; she unbuckles it enough to step one leg out of her panties and shorts and then reattaches it, shaking her clothes out of the other side. You grin. She's no Salma Hayek, but she's got an alright body: lean and smooth but not too skinny, with milky skin and small, high tits. She catches you looking, leaning on the washer for support as you tug off your socks, and shrugs shyly. The sincerity of your smile seems to reassure her.

You unbutton your fly and freeze with your pants halfway down your ass, struck by a sudden, frightening thought. "Your folks aren't home now, are they? They're not going to come down here and freak out?"

Mac shakes her head. "Soccer finals. They're in Santa Barbara with my little brother."

"Oh. Good." You kick your pants out of the way. It's kind of comforting, now that you can see your cock and hers side by side, that there's not a drastic difference in size between them. Yours is somewhat thicker and shorter, especially now when it's only about three-quarters erect, projecting hopeful and confused.

You stand facing each other, naked except for her harness and your ink. She moves first to close the distance; you meet her in the middle. You skim a palm up her pale shoulder and her knuckles brush down your breastbone toward your navel. "Smooth," she comments. You lean to kiss the corner of her mouth, a second's press of dry lips but it's long enough to feel her cheek move as she smiles. She smells clean and horny and like she just ate an orange popsicle.

She's still smiling when you pull back, then she says, "Oh!" and flits back to the dryer. She returns with an armload of towels, which she dumps on the couch, and a handful of assorted condoms and sample pouches of lube. "Silicone's supposed to be easy to clean but we should still put a rubber on it."

"Got any strawberry?" you ask as she sorts the condoms in her hand, separating out the flavored ones.

"Yes, actually," she shows you a pink wrapper. "Did you want to . . . ?"

You glance down, consider admitting you were being a wiseass, then say, "Sure." If you're going to take her cock, you might as well go all in.

Mac piles the other supplies on the floor and opens the condom wrapper, then pauses with the rolled condom in her hand. "I've never had to put one on myself before."

"Let me," you say, then realize that you have no idea how to put a condom on somebody else, so you're both laughing when you come to stand behind her, looking around her shoulder with your left hand bracing her hip as you roll the condom on with your right. You hold there, pressing up against her from behind with your hand at the base of her cock, palm flat over the fork of her thighs. You can feel the heat radiating there as you nuzzle into the back of her neck, raising your other hand to pull her hair out of the way so you can kiss her skin. She moans a little, then turns around in your arms to kiss you for real, sweeping her tongue into your mouth and sucking on your lower lip. The slippery dildo jabs your belly as she crushes her chest to yours.

Your knee's still too messed up for kneeling, so you sit on a crumpled towel at the edge of the couch and she stands in front of you, legs a little apart. You look up at her face, stroking the sheathed baton, and she places a palm on your shorn scalp. You gather a bit of saliva in your mouth before wrapping your lips around her cock. The condom's kind of gross, fake strawberries sickly sweet, but you try to ignore it. Your plan to reproduce things you like having done to you stumbles a bit when you remember that she can't feel the way you can, but you decide to go for it anyway. You gag a little trying to take the whole length into your mouth and have to pull back but if the dig of Mac's fingers into your skull means anything, she seems to appreciate the effort.

She has to ask the question twice; you're so into the rhythmic motion of what you're doing you didn't realize she was speaking. "What's Spanish for 'blow job'?"

There's an audible pop from the breaking suction as you pull off. "Una mamada," you answer, wiping a line of slobber from your chin before you lean in again.

"Una mamada," she repeats. "And 'blow me'?"

"Mámame," you slurp your way back to the end and leave kisses along the side as you speak, "technically 'suck me'."

You slide your palms along her body, one up her belly to her ribcage, the other between her thighs to find her flesh between the straps of the harness. You spread her labia with a finger and gasp around her shaft because holy fuck, she's wet as the ocean and hot as sunlight. With your hand here you can feel what your suckling is doing to her, how the dildo presses against the nest of nerves at the root of her clit. Two fingers push inside her, pumping in time with the slide of your jaws. She gulps and grabs at the hand on her chest, stretching your arm up to suck two of those fingers into her mouth. Your rhythm falters a bit at the hum that sends through you, and just as you find it again Mac takes a step back.

She throws the cushions from the back of the couch on the floor and drapes a towel over them, then gestures for you to lie on top. "What—?" you start to say when she straddles you, knees beside your ears, then, startled, "Fuck!" Your head drops back with an incoherent moan as her hot mouth envelopes your neglected cock. She pulls the skin taut, saliva trickling under her hand onto your balls. "Oh Dios mío that feels so good."

You know you're supposed to reciprocate, but you're too distracted and the angle is awkward, so rather than trying to get her cock back you roll your head to mouth clumsy kisses on her thigh. Your hand comes up, fingers dipping under the harness to find her clit. You set your pace to what makes her moan around your flesh as you keep muttering encouragement into your skin.

Mac breaks off at the courtesy tap you give her hip when your balls start to tighten. She climbs off you, goes to kneel at your feet. She's out of breath and her skin is shiny. "Do you still want to . . .?"

"What?" You wipe sweat out of your eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

The towel sticks to your back as you raise your hips so that Mac can fold the cushion double underneath them. She tears a packet of lube and coats her fingers, then starts spreading it around your asshole. It feels a little weird, letting somebody else touch you like this, but that's not remotely a complaint. She adds more lube, probing one short-nailed finger inside, and waits until that gets easy before adding another. When she's got three slender digits working with little resistance, she rises up on her knees.

"Weevil?" Mac says as she pushes in.

"Call me Eli," you pant, "at least for tonight."

"Ask me to fuck you."

"Chingame," you say, half-laughing, half-grunting, "¡Culeame!"

She thrusts experimentally, and you grimace because it's somehow not right. Mac frowns too, takes hold of the dildo's base and adjusts its angle. "There's supposed to be a sweet spot."

"Oh, it's in there," you agree, then go briefly cross-eyed when she pushes it in again. "Sweet mother of mercy!"

At first you hold yourself loosely, allowing the force of Mac fucking you to push your dick through the ring of your hand. Mac tilts her hips until she finds a motion that rubs her the right way too, then her pace and insistence start to slowly increase. You tense your back for more resistance, but the steady pounding keeps nudging you back until your head drops off the edge of the cushion onto the carpet. The rough red fibers irritate your scalp and when you toss your head distractedly one of your earrings snags on nylon. You swat at it and feel the post slip out of your ear, but no way in hell are you going to stop and look for it now.

Mac makes a kind of a squeaking noise and your eyes snap back to her face. You're struck not by her beauty, although right now she's absolutely beautiful, but by her rightness for this encounter, this sharing of experience, on this weird night. Lilly might have done this with you, you can imagine, but for herself, her own kicks, whether it was your suggestion or hers, because Lilly was innocent and selfish; Veronica might have done it for you if she loved you that way, because Veronica gives everything to those she loves, but then when things went sour she'd have used it as ammunition against you, against herself, that same generosity turned from strength to weakness. Mac doesn't need to love you, and Mac isn't using you. With Mac, this doesn't have to mean anything more than it is: an experiment in expanding horizons of mutual pleasure. That, as much as anything, makes her lethally attractive. Your grip on your cock tightens and you start pumping in earnest.

"Eli?" Mac's skin is stained with sweat, her fingers digging into your hips as she rolls her pelvis against your ass, your balls brushing between the harness and her navel. Her face is flushed red, eyes shut, mouth slack, forehead crumpled like she's about to start crying. Her hips still almost completely, tiny precise movements rubbing just so, pressing just right, and your fist shakes faster than your racing heart. "How do you say—?"

"Estoy—" you pant as you shoot onto your belly— "viniendo!" The statement is punctuated with a choked moan, air crushing out of your lungs as all the muscles in your torso clamp down hard around the dick in your ass.

There's another long silence as both of you gulp for air. Mac's fingers knead the tops of your thighs, and you squeeze her right hand with your clean left one. Then Mac laughs, pulling out and dropping to the floor perpendicular to you. "Fuck," she peels the condom off the dildo inside out, tosses it in a wastebasket, and strokes the bare silicone contentedly. "That was hot."

"That's putting it mildly."

"I totally owe you breakfast now."

"You owe me?"

"Is that a problem? I don't mean it in a chauvinist way, like if this was a traditional heteronormative date. I'm not saying that you have to let me buy you pancakes because—I think it's really brave that you were willing to—really masculine."

You snort. "It's okay, I get it. If you really want to buy me pancakes you can, but you don't owe me anything. Believe me." You straighten your legs, shaking them to relieve the ache building in your calves and lower back, then pull the cushion back under your head.

"Thank you," Mac says, sitting up. "I mean really, thank you. I needed . . . something . . . tonight."

"Me too."

She removes the harness, then stands and steps over you to get to the towels on the couch. She drops one on your chest, sticky with sweat and cum, and dabs at herself with another. Sheets and pillows come out of one of the boxes, and pajamas for Mac: an inside-out t-shirt and boxers printed with cartoon owls. She offers you the saggy couch, taking the cushions on the floor for herself.

"Goodnight Eli," she whispers once the lights are out.

"Goodnight Mac." She's asleep almost immediately, leaving you staring at shadows for a while before you too drift off to the smell of sex and the sound of her breathing.  
*  
You wake to thin dawn light from the window on the stairs and the clatter of a door slamming open.

"Shit!" Mac sits bolt upright. "Parents are back early." She looks around the room. "This is way too much to explain. I'll distract them, you clean up."

She's gone in a flash and you resist the temptation to pass back out, fighting your way to sitting, then to dressed, then reassembling the couch and cleaning up the dildo army still standing at attention on top of the dryer. You can hear voices upstairs, Mac and her mother, but you can't make out what they're saying.

Mac comes back downstairs just as you're closing the top of the box of wonders.

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth: you helped me unpack. We hung out for a while, it got late, I invited you to crash on the couch."

"They were okay with that?"

"I elected not to mention your criminal record. Pancake time?"

You pass her a towel-wrapped bundle, peeling back a corner to show her what's inside. "It didn't feel right, putting it back in the box."

"Agreed."

"I'll get you the cash. You can tell your mom you sold it to a friend."

"Sure," she starts to hand the bundle back but you wave her off.

"It's yours."

She smiles, looks flattered, and stashes it towel and all in one of her college boxes. "In that case breakfast's definitely on me."

It's not until you're looking over the roof of the car towards the sun rising on the far side of a big crowded continent, raising a hand to finger the carpet burn on the back of your head, that you remember the lost earring, and the last earring you lost before this one. You laugh and open the door. This time losing was a lot more fun.


End file.
